


Cross My Heart

by orphan_account



Series: Fullmetal Fortnight 2014 [20]
Category: Fullmetal Alchemist, Fullmetal Alchemist (Anime 2003), Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Best Friends, Canon Compliant, Gen, Pre-Canon, Prompt Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-19
Updated: 2014-03-19
Packaged: 2018-01-16 07:30:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1337116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Trish,” her best friend whispered, “I’m scared.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cross My Heart

**Author's Note:**

> Written for FMA Week 2014. Prompt 12: "Elrics". Also, I'm so sorry, Anon, that this has languished in my inbox for something like forever, but written for the prompt: "Since you write so many amazing friendships, consider Sara & Trisha? look I even did that crappy ampersand".
> 
> I have A Thing for dumb nicknames. It happens. Olive. Win. Trish. The list goes on.
> 
> Unbeta'd due to length. Enjoy!

“Trish,” her best friend whispered, “I’m scared.”

The grass beneath their feet curled up wetly into the arches, as if some goddess of the earth were tickling the pads of their feet. Her white sundress loose around her shoulders and waist, Trisha removed the hairband that kept her long ponytail steady, gripping it in her mouth while she retucked her hair out of her eyes. As she slipped the band to the wispy lion’s tail-tip of her hair, she took up abruptly to a deep track across the field.

Her gold swept into a temporary bun that rode her neck and threatened to come unravelled at any second, Sara raced after her. Cupped her hands around her mouth. Called.

“You’re ignoring me!”

“We’re sixteen,” Trisha observed with a slight air of superiority, like their ages had somehow allotted them a wisdom, strength, and courage far beyond what they had possessed at the tender age of fifteen.

Gasping her words out breathlessly, Sara snorted air from her nose: “That doesn’t right you the right to ignore me.”

She bridged the distance at last and tackled Trisha head-on. The girls tumbled into the sweet-smelling grass. Smears of green marked the misadventure on the fabric of Trisha’s dress and of Sara’s, the latter’s a leaf shade in the first place. Elbowing the green-clad intellectual for _daring_ to wear something appropriate, Trisha rolled to a sitting position, knees tucked into her chest and hands clasped around her shins. Sara’s hair curled at her shoulders, where the tips frizzed from their lengthy stay in the bun. With an exaggerated sigh broken up by the lingering effect of her panting, she ran her fingers through her locks in the manner of a comb. Trisha giggled.

“Here. Let me help.” Shifting to kneel, she carefully picked through Sara’s hair, removed grass on the way. “Oi. Sara.”

“Talk to me,” her best friend answered instantaneously in that edge of emotional authority that would assist her down the road.

“I’m gonna miss you.”

Slowly the girls lifted their chins, nearly at the same moment, and glanced at one another. With that camaraderie born of a childhood spent together, Sara knew to twist around just so and Trisha knew to encircle her friend’s shoulders just so until they lay embracing in the grass, almost obscenely, save for the deep-set emotions that both read in the other: As easily as an alchemist could read the base composition of the land, so too could the girls read the base composition of the soul.

Trisha buried her face into the warmth of Sara’s neck. “But you’re not going away _forever_.”

Nodding, Sara squirmed closer to Trisha despite the rising heat that bid them lift their dresses to their knees and slicked their limbs and necks with beads of sweat. “Only for a few years. Then I’ll be back with a toolkit.” Her eyes shone. “With _the_ toolkit. Of a doctor, you know?”

“And then you’ll fight your mum about getting married.” Trisha grinned; Sara slapped her shoulder, and Trisha sprinkled a handful of grass blades onto her best friend’s head. “If I have a daughter, she’s going to be a doctor just like you.”

“Really?”

Trisha dipped her head. Smiled, bright, wide, genuine. “I wish I could be as smart and ambitious as you, to become a doctor.”

Her best friend bit her lower lip. “I would I could be as hardworking and patient as you,” she mumbled, “to become a mother.”

At once Trisha reached across Sara’s waist to grasp her wrists tightly, firmly. _Willed_ for whatever hardwork or patience she had to pass through their shared bond. “Then I’ll be mother to your children and you’ll be doctor to mine.” Sara hugged her, no matter the constraints, however soothing, and mouthed a silent _thank-you_ against her throat. “It’ll be okay, Sara. The Resembool Rangers’ll never break apart, you know?”

The corners of Sara’s mouth curved up, moonlike. “Never ever?”

“Never ever.” Releasing Sara’s left wrist, Trisha drew an _X_ across her breast. Her forefinger, smudged in the grass, left a track of green blurred as blood. “Cross my heart and hope to die.”


End file.
